love, it is a season of trances,
time of the month, your cheek
a flat hide i try to inflate. you say
there is no pain, no cliff to fret after,
and the windows are sewn shut
in the cave where we drift and devise.
here, pleasure bruises like
a marsh dense with diamonds,
their small sharping, like the stork
of the clock, beak clicking its ring.
in a season of blaring, i shudder
and tear the nails from their walls
so nothing can boast there,
so nothing can tremble or gleam.